The bronze bell died out into stillness, leaving cold mountain silence in its wake. The pine needles underfoot smelled faintly of distant slag and charred loam. Taiyeng’s gaze sharpened, turning north, not toward the source of the sound, but to the meandering path that snaked down from the monastery’s main gates. Ryunhia, still clutching her singed broom, peered between Taiyeng and Oyun, knuckles stark white against the bristle bindings. “The Shanjiao Temple,” Oyun murmured, breaking the quiet. His usual teasing lilt was gone, replaced by a low, almost grim tone. “They shared our northern border. A smaller sect, but their earth-wardens were formidable. To fall so completely…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “The Sovereign of Ash moves with greater speed than ever.” Taiyeng set his teeth. Shanjiao Temple had been a stubborn sect along the northern ridges, their earth-wardens notoriously entrenched. Absolute ruin within a single night pointed to one man. “Elder, what was that strike?” Ryunhia asked, her voice thin. Taiyeng glanced at her, then at the shattered courtyard stones. The thought of this child, so desperate to survive, caught in the crosscurrents of such savagery, was a burr under his skin. “It means,” he said, his voice rough, “we sweep harder.” Oyun raised an eyebrow, a flicker of his usual amusement returning. “A sage-like decree for calamitous news, Taiyeng. Perhaps you should offer to sweep the messenger clean of his distress.” As if on cue, a distant commotion stirred at the main gates. A procession, small but urgent, wound its way up the mountain path. Not a messenger, but an envoy. Too swift, too composed, considering the nature of the tragedy. Taiyeng’s eyes narrowed. This wasn't grief; it was calculation. “They’re here already?” Ryunhia asked, startled. Taiyeng kept his eyes on the road. “Oyun, walk her down to the southern annex. Show her how to file scrolls, and keep her indoors.” Oyun, sensing the sudden shift in Taiyeng’s demeanor, nodded, his smile fading completely. “Of course, Taiyeng. Come along, Ryunhia. Today we delve into the lost histories of the Eight Immortals of the Cloud-Wreathed Peak.” He gently guided the bewildered Ryunhia away, toward the monastery’s labyrinthine halls. Taiyeng turned away from the entry path, cutting sharp into the thick green cane that bordered the northern slope. The sect's outer conduit lay buried beneath that grove, singing a low, subterranean rumble against the soles of his cloth shoes. The envoy was moving with unnatural speed. Too eager. Too direct. They weren't seeking solace; they were seeking a target. He moved like a shadow, his sweeping broom gripped like a staff, the familiar weight a comfort. The green stalks stood crowded together, dry sheaths clicking in the draft. He picked up the scuff of boots before catching sight of them: four men clad in Shanjiao silk, pacing through the ferns toward the conduit. Their footsteps were too light, too practiced for grieving diplomats. “You took the wrong turn,” Taiyeng said, stepping out from behind a thick culm. The four intruders halted, blades slipping clear of cloth scabbards. Grey soot caked their hem seams—Chidao's calling card. “A chore monk?” one spat, drawing an iron stiletto. “Step aside, old fool.” “Perhaps,” Taiyeng replied, shifting his grip on the haft. “Though you trampled my raked gravel.” The killers struck at once. One swept low for his shins, a second drove steel toward his collarbone, while the third lunged with a heavy fist. The point man swung wide around his flank, soot curling from an open palm. Taiyeng swung the broom in a short, rhythmic arc. The wood parried the low boot, caught the dagger crossguard, and drove straight into the third fighter's wrist with a sharp crack that scattered the man's gathered energy. The forward scout paused, thrown off cadence. Taiyeng stepped inside the opening and jabbed the butt of the haft against the scout's sternum. The impact made no loud clap, but the man's breath seized as his internal channels folded in reverse. He dropped instantly into the mulch. The lone survivor with the broken wrist backed away, heels catching on roots. “That form... the low sweep... the mountain-clearing gait...” Taiyeng stepped forward, mouth set flat. Even stripped of fire, the footwork retained too much old bone-memory. Before he could drop the survivor, the body on the ground heaved. Smoldering soot poured from the scout's throat, coalescing into an upright silhouette of cinder and red heat. Twin glowing embers bored into Taiyeng. “Lord of Scorch,” Chidao’s shade grated, the sound scraping like dry coal. “Hiding among bald ascetics while your blood still boils. You cannot scrub away what you are. Join me, and we will level these leylines together.” The shade thrust out a hand, unleashing a wash of cinder and black heat. Taiyeng swung. No cultivator light flared along his arms; he simply drove the straw in a flat, ruthless sweep across the dirt. The compressed force of the swing broke the air like a snapped sail, crushing the cinder blast into powder. The soot figure split apart under the stroke, shreds of burning cinder scattering into cold grey dust. The dead scout slumped back down, inert. The remaining intruder stared at the rake marks in the dirt, lips trembling. “The Scorched... Earth...” His chest seized under the backlash of suppressed pressure, and he collapsed limp onto the moss. Taiyeng lowered his broom. The grove fell quiet, the air smelling of singed grit. His ribs burned with old heat, the kind that took hours to smother beneath mundane chores. “Elder?” Taiyeng paused, then looked over his shoulder. Ryunhia stood between two thick shoots, clutching an armful of bamboo scrolls. “That intruder on the ground,” she said, staring past his broom to the dead men. “He named you the Scorched Earth Paragon.” Taiyeng turned the broom upright, tapping loose gravel from the bristles. “He was delirious from a cracked wrist. Pick up your scrolls, girl. We have six paths left to sweep before dusk.”

Embers in the Bamboo